


Open Mike Night at the Red Pony

by mackiedockie



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series, Longmire (TV), Walt Longmire Mysteries - Craig Johnson
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:52:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a stranger in town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Mike Night at the Red Pony

“The usual,” I rumbled, coughing as I slapped smoke and dust from my shirt, leaving the front door of the Red Pony open to catch the erratic breeze shifting the smoky August air.

“Walt Longmire. The prodigal Sheriff returns. You have soot on your face.” Henry Standing Bear said as he snapped open a can of Rainier and slid it over polished surface of the bar. “I would think that even the riffraff common to your profession would be intelligent enough to avoid the fire lines.”

“Meaning I’m not,” I agreed with a ghost of a smile. “There was a new spot fire on the Beartooth Complex near the Cheval-Blanc spread between the highway and the Rez, had to move quick to clear the campgrounds and close the highway north. It's under control now, but I’m afraid your Motel Cowboys band got caught on the other side of the pass, up Montana way.”

“The natives will be restless. Your natives, not mine. It is payday. Expect a barfight or three.” Henry warned, calm as the dawn. “That is unfortunate timing, as the wind will lay down tonight.”

I watched as Henry pulled down the band flyer from behind the bar and wrote “Cancelled” across it in heavy red ink. “The Type II commander is being cautious, but she agrees with your meteorology report. We’re standing down from pre-evacuation alert as of midnight, barring any more freak lightning strikes.”

“Unusual. Uncommon. But not freakish,” Henry disagreed. “Someone does not play well with fire.”

“The fire boss concurs. Probable arson.” I coughed again and put a dent in the beer, clearing my throat. “One of his hotshot crews found this near the new fire’s origin point.” I slid a long, double-bladed knife onto the bar. It’s thin, tapered edge gleamed wickedly where a fine layer of ash had been wiped away. A dark red smear stained the carved bone pommel. My finely honed Sheriff’s instincts suspected it was blood. Or steak sauce. “I gather it’s not native to the area.”

“ ‘Is this a dagger I see before me?’ “ Henry quoted. “It is not even native to this continent. It is one of your colonial imports.” 

“It does have a Shakespearean look,” I cast an uneasy look at the bar’s stage in the corner, but Henry didn’t share my latent colonial superstition about quoting the Scottish play.

A shadow loomed in the bar door. “It dates from at least a century earlier. Late medieval, 14th century Spanish poniard, or puñal.” A broad-shouldered man with a canted stance stood in the doorway, his fine silvered hair and neat, close-clipped whiskers backlit by the westering sun, creating a disconcerting halo effect. He held a well-used Martin guitar case in one hand, and a cane in the other. “The knife is sometimes known as a bollock or kidney dagger,” he added conversationally.

I winced. So did Henry, as we traded glances. “Tell us more,” I invited, mistrusting gift experts appearing out of thin air, but willing to suspend disbelief for the moment. The man in the doorway delayed, calculating, as he self-consciously wiped his shoes. Nice Italian shoes. Also a colonial import.

“Where did you find it?” he asked. “If I’m not mistaken, I believe you’ll find a Spanish makers mark on the tang. Villa-Lobos. It’s listed in ‘A Metallurgical History of Ancient Sword Making.’“ He eyed the knife with puzzled concern. Easing up to the bar with an uneven gait, he carefully laid the guitar on a nearby table. I heard the telltail clump of prosthetics as he moved.

“You’re a historian? Or are you with the band?” I asked, dazzling the crowd with my deductive skills.

“Both, back in the day, among my other sins,” he said, leaning heavily on a well-travelled cane. “Retired, now.” Something in his voice made me think it hadn’t been entirely his idea. He squinted at the knife as his eyes adjusted from the glare of the sun to the cool bar shade. I wondered how he recognized such historical detail all the way from the door. “My apologies for intruding on your bar setup if you’re closed,” he said with a hint of professional courtesy to Henry. “The door was open. I heard you occasionally have an open mike night, and thought I’d inquire.”

“It’s another beautiful day at the Red Pony Bar and continual soiree,” Henry said smoothly, assessing the stranger, clearly trying to place the face. “I am Henry Standing Bear, proprietor. Enter and be welcome. A beverage? Victuals are served at the cook’s discretion.”

“Looks like I’m in the right place,” the stranger lit with an infectious grin. “I won’t argue against a cold beer. I’ll have what Sheriff Longmire is having.”

I dusted some soot off my badge as his gaze returned to me. Apparently deductive skills were lying around thick on the ground, today. “You have us at a disadvantage,” I said in the soft tone that my daughter Cady claimed was terrifyingly intimidating, given my height and hat size. “What brings you and your medieval weapons expertise to our humble county?”

“Retirement is boring. I’m Joe.” The stranger did not look particularly terrified as he held out a large, callused hand. Guitar calluses, not the ranching or roughneck work more common in Absaroka County. His knuckles looked painfully skinned and knobbly, so I held back on my grip, but I needn’t have worried. His handshake was firm, but not aggressively so.

“Is this knife yours?”

“It belongs to a friend of mine--he’s the expert. PhD, Sorbonne, ancient and medieval history, general pain-in-the-ass wiseguy. Adam recently inherited a ranch up north of here. I’m just visiting.”

“Looks like you’ve been in a tussle.” His knuckles hadn’t been skinned playing ‘Freebird.’ 

“We had a break-in. The knife was taken last night, with some other...things. Three guys. One of them conked me with it as they ran out.” Sheepishly, his hand went up to his forehead, where I saw a nasty contusion, expertly stitched. “I wasn’t much help in the fracas.”

“That looks like it smarts. Mister…? Professor…?” I hinted. Concerned, I peered more closely into his eyes, noting that his pupils were even, and not too enlarged. Henry packed some ice into a clean bar towel and slid it over.

“Sorry, I was distracted.” The stranger was speaking to Henry, not me. “For some reason, you look familiar.” He peered more closely at Henry and his lair, cataloging his features, the neon red pony, the neatly arranged bottles, the American flag. Maybe it was a historical thing. He held out his hand to Henry. “Joe Dawson. Nice bar. I like the acoustics.”

Henry, the most unflappable man I have ever met, actually stepped back, out of reach of the extended hand. “Joseph Dawson, United States Marine Corps? O Positive?” he asked, and despite the heat a cold frisson raised the hair on the back of my neck. I had heard Henry’s story of finding an injured MIA Marine impossibly far from his ambushed unit. He had stepped on a mine, and somehow travelled nearly 20 klicks, bloodied and gangrenous, where Henry’s SOG unit found him, raving about being saved by a dead man. The story did not end well.

Henry recovered, and gripped the hand, as if reassuring himself it was not a vision before him. “The medics who drew my blood for you told me afterward that you were a dead man. I am startled to find you otherwise.”

Joe Dawson looked nearly as upset and unprepared for the revelation as Henry. “I don’t remember much from the medivac. But I think I remember you. Study and Observations Group, right? I thought I dreamt that part. I was pretty well out of it by then. That transfusion probably made the difference.” Dawson took a deep breath. “That was a rough ride. I owe you.”

There was a long silence, of hard-seasoned men embarrassed by deep feelings and dark memories unexpectedly churned to the surface. The spell eased as Henry broke out another round of beers, joining us with a toast, lighter one ghost, of many. “Semper Fi.”

Joe Dawson grounded his beer first. “I’m going to kill Adam for this,” he said with unexpected fervor, given his audience. “Him and his antidiluvian sense of humor. He must have known about Henry’s connection and background long before he sent me down here looking for you, Sheriff. He’s been pestering me to visit for ages, even though he knows I’m a city boy. Manure and me don’t get along.” 

Both Henry and I glanced down at the Italian shoes. We didn’t argue the point. Or interrupt the rant.

“When I heard about the fires last week, I came down with my SUV, in case he needed help moving some books and...things. Last night, while Adam was out feeding the horses, a bunch of guys looking like the Spanish Inquisition blew through the door, looking for the damn knife.” Dawson seemed well on his way to getting wound up. “I wouldn’t put it past Adam to have staged the whole thing, if it weren’t for the fact that he isn’t here laughing at us right now.” Despite his words, Dawson looked more worried than angry.

“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” Henry helpfully contributed.

“Tell me and my headache about it,” Dawson groused, applying the ice to his head with a resigned sigh.

I stood up, a suspicion growing as I thought about spot fires and too many coincidences. “The ranch your friend bought into...it wouldn’t be called the Cheval-Blanc?”

“One and the same,” Dawson admitted. “The cell reception up there is nonexistent, and the land line burned up, so I came on down to report you might have a few bad actors in your bailiwick.”

I had the oddest feeling that Dawson had originally intended no such thing, before he had spotted the knife on the bar. “Where is your friend, Adam? More particularly, where was he last night, after your break-in?”

The calculating look returned to his face, and a slight wince betrayed the fact that Mr. Dawson might be considering a cavalier approach to the truth. Then he glanced at Henry’s impassive face behind the bar. “Honestly? He spent most of the night, what was left of it, stitching me up and inventorying the loss. When it got light enough, he saddled up to follow the tracks. He said he’d meet me back here for a beer. Didn’t want to leave me alone at the ranch, with the fires on one side, and the gang roving around on the other. Even though I’m sure they’re long gone.”

Dawson’s honest aggravation convinced me he was telling the truth, as far as it went. Most of it, anyway. The last line sounded a little sketchy and smacked of wishful thinking. I stood up, stretching, giving the rest of the cold Rainiers in Henry’s cooler a sad farewell. “I guess I’ll be on my way up to the Cheval-Blanc and have a look around for your friend.”

Dawson pushed himself erect. “I’ll come with you.”

I refrained from pointing out that his prosthetics would only slow me down. I pointed to the guitar lying on the table, instead. “Can you play that Martin?”

“Passably well,” Dawson straightened, pride in his talent reflecting more in his stance than his words.

“Henry needs you more, right here. He’s got half the county coming in on payday tonight, looking for live music. To keep the peace, I’m electing you.”

“Adam will be here anytime. It’s a wasted trip,” Dawson insisted, clearly torn. Strangely, he seemed to be harboring a worry for my safety as well.

“Perhaps it is as Joe says, this professor will show up on his own, in good time, with his own tale to tell,” Henry said, inexplicably siding with Dawson. “Look to the north, Walt.”

Following Henry’s line of sight, I bolted for the door, skidding to a halt on the porch. The sky was blue in every direction, clear as a bell except for the column of smoke from the Beartooth Complex. No clouds, yet lightning danced on the wooded ridge to the north. The actinic arcs stabbed upward, burning the eye in broad daylight. “They can probably see that all the way to Durant.”

“They can probably see that all the way to Montana,” Henry corrected. 

The Type II fire commander would have hotshots moving on it before I could call it in. She was that good. But Absaroka was my county. My fire. I was feeling stretched between two duties. “One professor against three miscreants--I don’t like the odds.”

“Yeah, you’re right about the odds.” Dawson said, somewhat sadly, his eyes fixed on the alien lightning. “They don’t have a chance.”

 

A day, and one more freak lightning storm later, Professor Adam Pierson did show up for a beer at the Red Pony Bar and continuing soiree. Many beers, in fact. And Joe Dawson did turn out to be a better than a passable guitar player, more than a match for the payday crowd (for a city boy.) The two of them turned out to be pretty decent neighbors in the long run, not stingy with their water rights where the ranch bordered on the Rez.

But I never did find a trace of three miscreants in the hills behind the Cheval-Blanc spread. 


End file.
